Author's Notes: I'm a sucker for traditions, which is why I love Burns Suppers so much (well, that and the whiskey and dancing), so I thought I'd start my own little tradition of Burns fic. The best lines, of course, belong to the Immortal Memory.

On his first day out of rehab, House slipped into work early (it was a short trip down the elevator) and locked himself in his office until his fellows got the hint and stopped trying to talk to him. He didn't know which one snitched - he suspected Chase - but minutes after the oncology department weekly meeting ended, Wilson was standing in front of his office door, hands planted not very patiently on his hips.

House sighed and got up to unlock the door. Wilson was wearing his ridiculous tartan tie and House realised what day it was. "Where are the scones?" he demanded.

"Sorry, no scones," Wilson replied, "but there's shortbread in the oncology lounge."

"You didn't bring us any shortbread," House sulked. "The children are going to think they're unloved."

"They are," Wilson replied bluntly.

House blinked. That had sounded almost angry. He had a fair idea of how Cameron and Foreman had treated Wilson after he had made the deal with Tritter - the thin glass walls in the hospital were designed for gossip and House had sources second to none - but Wilson was one of the most ridiculously forgiving men he knew. Maybe Wilson had done some rehabilitation of his own. "Even Chase?"

Wilson relaxed slightly, one corner of his mouth twitching up. "I got Chase some vegemite for Australia Day tomorrow. Surely that's enough."

The tiny voice that had haunted House those pain-filled days before and after Christmas finally shut up. Wilson might have gone to Tritter partly because of what House had done to Chase, but he hadn't chosen Chase over House. "Where's my shortbread, then?"

"I didn't know you were getting out today," Wilson replied, sounding simultaneously apologetic, hurt and disapproving. It was a tone Wilson specialized in and House basked in the familiarity.

"I took the accelerated program," House explained. "Skipped a couple of those weird steps in the middle and graduated early." He smirked. "I was just following your example. Didn't you tell me you skipped a grade in school?"

"That was grade 2," Wilson protested. "Which I skipped because I'd already mastered most of the curriculum." He smirked back at House. "I'm somewhat relieved that you left before the meditation, prayer and proselytizing, but I'm shocked that you didn't humbly ask God to remove your shortcomings."

"My higher power and I agreed that I had no shortcomings, so it was all right to skip that one."

"I'm glad the spirit of André the Giant was so agreeable," Wilson observed sardonically. He wasn't smiling, but it was a close thing. "I hope he at least spoke to you in rhymes."

For the first time since he'd checked himself into rehab as a last resort, House felt like things were back to normal. For both of them. "Speaking of rhymes, why aren't you quoting Burns at me like an annoying literary geek?"

He half-expected a bawdy couplet, memorized just for the occasion, but Wilson lowered his head and spoke softly. "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley." When he looked up again, his dark, expressive eyes asked for understanding and forgiveness.

House searched his memory for the next line. "An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain/ For promis'd joy!" His brogue was better than Wilson's, but it didn't make the words any less depressing. "It's not always grief and pain," he admitted. "Even if there's not much joy." House had done enough apologizing and forgiving to last him a lifetime, but he found the patience for one more effort. "I know you meant well. I know you always mean well."

"I'm going to try to do well," Wilson promised. He pulled something wrapped in a napkin from his lab coat pocket and handed it to House. "I was going to give it to you during visiting hours."

House took the napkin and uncovered a wedge of Scottish shortbread. The edges were just jagged enough that House knew Wilson had baked it himself. He took a bite and sighed. "Now that is joy." He jerked his head towards Wilson's favourite chair. "Have a seat. I need to tell you about my spiritual awakening."

Wilson groaned, but dropped into the chair, smiling ruefully.

House left a trail of crumbs as he limped back to his desk, all the better for Wilson to find him.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.